As In Death
by TenTenD
Summary: The dying Rhaegar has one wish to see fulfilled before departure. AU! The king and his mistress talk.


Rhaenys worried the bit of cloth between her fingers, lips compressed in a thin line of grim concern. "But father, you cannot. The maester should remain here." Her words did not dissuade the King though. The Princess gripped his arm. "Whatever it is you wish for, you needn't endanger yourself further." The square piece of cloth slipped to the floor.

"Rhaenys," her father rasped, patting her hand gently. "I assure you, I won't perish."

Elia stood from her chair and tugged on the girl's shoulders. "Come, my sweet. Your father is right." Her gentle voice undulated slightly, as though she could not quite brush away the regret. "Aegon, you as well. Let us leave His Majesty to his rest."

Her son had been looking out one of the lancets. A heavier version of the same lancet loomed above, stained glass and all. "If you are certain, father." His voice, in contrast to his mother's, tried to hide nothing. It still held that awkward quality one met from time to time in boys who'd not become men quite yet.

Rhaegar was more than certain. He was bent on having them removed from the chamber for the time being, it seemed, as he encouraged the three to their own activities. Rhaenys still protested, but her mother swiftly pulled her along and she, raised with too much grace, did not pull away.

That left in the chamber only two. "You always cling to the shadows," Rhaegar said. "Come closer, I cannot see you." The figure nestled in one dark corner shifted. "I want to see you." The admission caused further shuffling until at long last the darkness parted to produce a lean creature.

Bedecked in heavy black, she glided along the floors, reaching his side. The opposite from where Rhaenys and Elia had stood. His right. Rhaegar angled his head slightly back. "Why do you look as though you may cry?"

"I won't," she denied, looking like she were about to cry, or crying; which one of those two, he was not certain. "You should not have sent them away. People will talk."

"People always talk," he reminded her gently, satisfied when she took one of his hands in her own two. "Does that matter to you?" She shook her head. "Good. Then that is all that matters. Sit. We must speak."

"Methinks we have been speaking for all this time," she needled carefully, her words calculated and nearly flat. Rhaegar chuckled, understanding without further explanation. She sat down nevertheless, still holding his hand. "Tell me then; what is so important that it cannot wait?"

He did not speak right away. Instead he took his time, analysing the features of his beloved Lyanna. He had thought long about the words he would say to her. About how one might mitigate the blow he was to deliver. Rhaegar half feared losing all that was left of her. But the alternative was so much more painful. Nay; he thought as their eyes met and the liquid silver shone as bright as the moon might have. The alternative was unbearable.

He squeezed her hand, gently, he could not muster more than that. "I want you to leave for Winterfell." There was no reaction from her in the first moments. In fact, about as mobile as a stone carving, she stared at him with confusion.

Then the words registered. "Nay. Why would I do so? I do not wish to go to Winterfell." She sounded like the girl she'd once been. "I am not leaving here. Not until you do, that is." He trembled at the promise she offered.

"This is not about what you want. It is an order and I expect you to comply." As though she had ever done so. Lyanna was shaking her head vehemently, denial upon her lips. He sighed.

"If you expect that, Your Grace, best have your Kingsguards dragging me away. Otherwise, it is my firm plan that I shan't move from your side." She scowled. "Or is it that you have finally grown bored of me?"

"Don't speak such nonsense." His reasons were many. Some were selfish. Most were selfish. All of them were selfish? Rhaegar coughed and she leaned over him, smoothing his hair backwards in motherly fashion.

"Don't encourage such nonsense thoughts in me then," Lyanna retaliated. "How can you ask me to leave what I hold dearest in this world?" He winced and she drew back. "Apologies, I did not mean to hurt you."

"You will leave for Winterfell. And you will do so within the turn." She began arguing once more, but he, having drawn on his energy enough, held one hand up. Lyanna fell silent. "I love your devotion might be more than you can understand. But as I told you, this is not about what either of us wishes. You must go to Winterfell."

"Why?" Pain rifled through him. He clenched his teeth as the agony deepened. "Forget about this Winterfell scheme, whatever it is," Lyanna urged, gentle hands back to stroking. "I need not go anywhere. I am pleased enough to be sitting here, in this chamber, with you. This does not frighten me, Rhaegar. I can handle anything as long as I am with you."

He thought he might burst into tears. It was rare that such words be addressed and truly meant. All the more painful for him to endure. Shame flooded every nook and cranny capable of still feeling. "Listen to me," he ordered, voice coming out more harshly than intended. "There is something in Winterfell for you."

"My brother?" she guessed. "Oh, Rhaegar, you silly man. If I wanted Ned, I would write, and he would come. I do not want Ned." She had not seen him for years either except that once, from afar. "And Ned likely does not want me. He has a family and no reason to go borrowing trouble. I must say 'tis very poorly done of you to attempt returning me now to my kin."

"I am not returning you," he assured, managing to regain a sort of balance. "And 'tis not your brother that concerns me." She backed away, eyeing him suspiciously. It was time, he could put it off no longer. "The reason I wanted us to be alone, the reason no one must know this, I fear 'tis because I have lied to you."

"Lied to me," she echoed, suspicion morphing into confusion. But that meant she would be silent and allow him to explain. Just as well. Rhaegar waited until he was certain she would not interfere.

"At the tower, about the babe. I lied." She blanched. That manner in which the skin lost all its colour and became parchment-like. "The child did not die." Her hand climbed to her heart and pressed upon the spot. "I could not allow for another conflict when one had just ended. I am so very sorry."

"My babe is alive?" He nodded. "Why? How?"

"It was a boy. Aegon was a babe yet and the situation we found ourselves in was uncertain at best. He looked so much like you, and I though, since the resemblance is there, the realm need not suffer needlessly." Lyanna gasped. Rhaegar watched her. "It was a boy and I was at my wits' end."

A burst of laughter came from her. "You are lying. It is not a nice thing to do to me. Have you not lost your taste for poor jests?" She huffed. "A boy, he says. I was the mother of your Visenya. I was." Lyanna gazed into his eyes. "Wasn't I?"

"His name is Jon," he continued uncertainly, "and your brother wrote to me every year. The letters are in the chest. He is skilled with a sword, but your brother's son is the better jouster. He still looks like you, very much so, but I am afraid he carries my taciturn nature like weight about his shoulders."

"Stop it!" Lyanna was biting her lower lip, hands covering her ears as though it might block his words, block the truth. "This is not amusing."

He grabbed at her wrist and tugged one hand away. "It is tragic, I should think," he acknowledged. "But you will hear the rest of it. Your brother raised the boy as his natural born son. For all intents and purposes, he had all he ever needed. I made certain."

"Rhaegar, stop. You are hurting me." The words echoed through him. He did not let go through.

"I will not tell you what to do with him. That I cannot command. But I want you to see our son, just once." He coughed again, lifting his hand from hers to cover his mouth.

When he looked up, horror and sorrow mingled on the woman's face. A fitting punishment, he supposed. He'd taken the sun from her skies and she would take his sun from his. Having thought that, the urge to offer further apology nearly overwhelmed him. Rhaegar did not allow for such to happen though. What he'd done, he had done for the realm.

"All this time, I was mourning our child. And he was simply on the other side of the kingdom." He heard only pain. "What were you hoping for? That I might forget? That I might breed again?" Her fingers linked together. "You must have been so disappointed when the maester told you there would never be a Visenya. And I was such a fool to think you were keeping me from the goodness of your heart."

Protests sprang to his lips. Incensed, Lyanna did not wish to listen. "I am talking now." He settled back down. "And you had better listen. You cannot say such words to me and expect I might embrace them with nary a thought. That child, he is very nearly a man grown. What will he think of us, if I should spring on him the same trap? He would be livid. And rightly so."

"He might carry anger in his heart towards me. But you did not know and could not have. He will understand." And of that he was as certain as could be. Eddard Stark claimed the boy would understand. And Rhaegar had to believe that if he could truly leave this world and Lyanna. "Read your brother's letters. You will know then."

"I don't want letters. I want to watch my child grow. I wanted to be there for him. And you took that from me. From us." She was on her feet though and making her way towards the foot of the bed. Rhaegar could not see that far ahead. Except for some blurs. The blobs of colour shifted, hinges screeching in protest. A lid slammed in its wake.

When he could finally make her out once more, Lyanna was holding an aged piece of parchment. "Gods, he has the ugliest scrawl," she complained of her brother. "This was written as soon as he reached Winterfell." The explanation was superfluous.

"The child is in good health. The wet nurse claims his temper is an improvement over the usual fare," he recited, "and in so far as he is concerned, naught could possibly cause him harm."

"I have named him Jon," she continued where he left off. "For Lord Arryn. My gods, at least he did not name the child Robert."

"He already has one." Robb Stark had been named for the man dead on the Trident. "Go on, keep reading," Rhaegar encouraged.

Even with what must have been half a cup of milk of the poppy, the ache returned in wave after wave. He could barely hear Lyanna reading out the words. "Do you know all of them?"

"What?"

"All the letters. Do you know all of them by heart?" He nodded and felt her cool hand touch his forehead. "I am still angry at you. I do not even know how I will explain this to the boy."

"Jon. His name is Jon."

"Jon," she repeated, then picked up where she'd left off.

As for himself, he was much too tired to do anything but close his eyes and listen to her voice, soothing, charming in its carefulness, and soon to be very much missed. He would miss her terribly, would he not?

* * *

Jon knocked on the door. He had attempted to wait longer, but night had already fallen and he was not at all certain his poor heart could pull through. Nevertheless, his anxiety did not diminish as he waited for the door to open. In fact, it increased exponentially by the moment. Whether that had to do with the woman waiting within or with the ostensibly armed and obviously dangerous guard who he knew was within as well, Jon was not at all certain. He remained in that same state of uncertainty even as his wish was granted and he was granted access to the one person he'd been waiting for all his life.

It was not his mother that greeted him. The flat expression on the Kingsguard face momentarily had him rooted to the spot. Before he could state his business, a voice came from deeper within, if he had to guess, well beyond the antechamber, "Let him come in, Arthur. The boy is no danger." Slightly taken aback by the familiarity and the accuracy with which she'd predicted his arrival, Jon slipped in past the heavily armoured man.

The antechamber doors were pushed further apart and the now-familiar figure of Lyanna Stark appeared, as though to greet him. She offered a smile, the awkward sort he'd seen on the face of a man he'd considered his father too many times before. Jon pressed his lips together in a bid to keep in the words which threatened to come sooner than he wished. "Arthur, you must be tired."

"I would rather be vigilant," the knight protested, turning to face the woman.

"Indeed? You may do so." But apparently he might not do so in her presence, for she tugged on Jon's arm gently. "Come, Arthur may look fierce, but I promise appearances are deceiving."

Ser Arthur Dayne, possibly the greatest knight of their times, fixed him with a glare. His host, however, clucked her tongue and managed to drag him within the carefully confined space of her bedchamber. The chamber had been kept in a like shape for as long as Jon could remember. He eyed the woman, trying to read behind the mask. It was damnably difficult. The doors closed with a soft sound.

"He seems a dutiful guard," Jon noted, moving until he'd brought himself somewhere near the middle of the chamber. "I thought he would not allow me past."

"Arthur is an old friend. If he seems rather categorical in his actions, that might well explain it." She pushed him towards an empty chair. "I am glad you have come to me. I feared you mightn't."

"I was not going to, initially," he explained, "until the morrow." Jon felt proud of himself. He had rehearsed his words over and over again, ever since his uncle had explained, as kindly as possible, and in a rather awkward manner, what awaited him. "I could not help myself in the end."

"And I am glad for it." She dragged another chair so she might sit before him, her posture mirroring his. It might be because he knew who they were. "I am not even certain about how I should begin." Had she been doing the same, writing and rewriting conversations in her head ever since that fateful letter had arrived? He hoped so. Jon rubbed his hands together, acutely aware of her gaze on him.

"He told me about the tower and the letters. I even read some." Her eyes widened. "And I thought about it for a long time." What he'd done, of course, boiled down to a lot of hiding off on his own and considering every possible and impossible nugget of information. His uncle had been surprisingly helpful in that Jon had been spared the needling of any member of the family. She breathed in harshly. Jon flinched at the unexpected sound, feeling rather like a hare in the sight of a fierce predator. "And I guess that what I wish to know, goes no further than this one question. If you had known–"

"I would not have allowed anything or anyone to keep us apart," she cut him off. "I tell myself that. Certainly, 'tis my hope that I would have been able to stop anyone from trying to separate us." He heard, nevertheless, the unspoken words. Whether she would have been able to do as she wished or not was as of yet unclear. But Jon thought the balance lent itself to the nay. He took comfort in her words all the same. "I wish your father had not hidden this from me. "

"Why did he?" That he'd struggled to understand. It remained quite beyond his grasp why a man who had everything could not simply do as he wished. There had been several explanations forthcoming. Clearly, he was not indifferent to Jon. Otherwise there would have been not even as little as the letters. There probably would not have been gifts either. Not that such tokens weighed much in and of themselves. So why then? His first instinct had been to accuse fear, or might be greed, or possibly jealousy.

His mother shook her head, holding one hand out. Jon did not hesitate to allow the contact. In fact, he curled his fingers tightly around her hand, like a small child might do, taking great joy in so little. "That I am unable to say. He is a strange man. Always has been. I reckon his reasoning seemed solid to him." Her other hand covered his, slightly elongated nails brushing gently against his knuckles. "In truth, ill as he was when he saw me off, I did not press further. It was enough for me that you lived, that I could have at least as much as a glimpse of you should you not wish to speak to me."

"Strange?" That was such a peculiar word to use. Jon's eyes bore into hers, willing an explanation from her lips. "What mean you, strange?"

"Focused, unrelenting to the point where he would rather break his own heart, and mine, so as to not acknowledge defeat. I vow I have yet to meet a man half as stubborn." Silence crept between them when she gazed away. Jon sensed she wished to speak further, but lacked the courage, might be, or the temerity. "You must hold him in low regard. I should not blame that." Should not; implying that despite the reasoning which credited such a reaction, she remained in opposition. "Forgive me, my son."

The words slammed into him as a well-placed punch might. She'd called him her son. And the ring of it sent a rush to blood to his face. He could feel the heat and doubted that his expression had remained impassive. "Why?"

"I cannot summon the wherewithal to think unfavourably of him. Not even for you." Her lips curled downwards. "He is the one who gave me you. Whatever else he might have done beside that, he gave me you and for that at least I cannot banish him from my heart." Jon cocked his head to the side, tightening his clasp on her hand. "I know 'tis difficult to accept. If I were you I do not know that I would even entertain such thoughts; but if you could find the strength to listen," she trailed off.

He understood Ser Dayne in that moment. It did not take much of him to hear the footsteps falling regularly on the other side of the door. It did not even take a great leap to figure they were being listened to. And in understanding the relentless guardian, he felt he understood, in part the plight, for in Jon's mind it all became a tragedy of sorts, of his father. And he considered the matter, as well as he could, from another point of view.

Jon forced himself into the position of king, wedging his way past infrequent, yet vitriolic opposition. He'd won a war, a kingdom and, if rumours were to be believed, a beloved, all at the cost of a great many lives. And he stood there, in a darkened chamber, an armful of flesh in the crook of his arm. The trouble was he had an heir. And a wife. Whatever his wishes may have been, it remained nigh impossible to ensure peace. And the joy of victory bled into deep-set horror.

For all his power, for all his glory, the court jester spun in dramatically wide circles, repeating over and over again, that he, victor though he might be, had sealed the fate of his realm. Jon was more or less convinced that another man, a lesser man, would have disposed of both him and his mother. It was the logical step. After all, women and babes died in childbed. Who would know the difference? House Stark had lost the war, and been saved by the grace of a wayward daughter who, for whatever reason, acted as she had.

And his father, despite the difficulty thinking of him as such presented, had instead settled him with a blood relative. With someone whom he trusted to protect him. And had kept his mother close, quite clearly adored and pampered. The final nail was Ser Dayne. Because he could not come with her, he'd sent a man who was renowned for many a great deed, and for the fact that the King and he were as close as brothers. The only danger Jon envisioned was rejection and that, while painful, would not have been within the knight's capacity to stop. And yet he stood guard at the chamber door, as though his mere presence would be a shield. An exercise in futility without doubt. At the same time, it easily fit the mould for one of the most heart wrenching things he'd ever witnessed.

With the choice set before him, Jon considered, for the very first time, allowing himself to remain as he'd always been. He could continue life as Ned Stark's bastard. He was used to the sideways looks and likely it would not grow worse. He did not have to let it affect him. The question was if he wanted that. Alternatively, he could take a chance. The end result might well be a whole heap of heartache. But at least he would have knowledge. And all he had to do for that was attempt to listen. It seemed too good to be true.

"And what should happen if I am disappointed by what I hear?" She blinked, as though his question made little sense. Jon did not repeat himself. "Your being here is proof of your affection. It is not, however, any proof of his." Not for Jon precisely. He pulled his hand away from hers gently, so as to not upset her.

"You will always have me. That much will not change. There is not much time, and yet I would not force your hand. The decision belongs solely to you." It would please her greatly if he tried. Jon had never truly had a mother to bring joy to; he wanted that. That pride he'd oft seen upon Robb's face at having done right by his lady mother. Which more or less meant that he'd made his decision long past and had been simply waiting for the moment to admit to it. And the moment lingered.

"You needn't force my hand, lady mother." It seemed only fair that he return the sentiment she so freely gave him. "I will listen." He might not accept what he heard; he might not even retain a shred of warmth towards the King. But what else was there to lose? "Of my own free will."

Her eyes widened just a fraction. She smiled. Something akin to heaviness settled upon his chest. But for all that a surge of joy was quick to follow. He'd done well, at least by his own account. And he perceived that keeping upon such a path would have many a benefit besides.

The pacing outside the chamber door came to a halt.

* * *

She was not certain what she'd expected. Lyanna looked at the Queen for guidance, for though she and Elia had never been the closest of companions, on account of too many festering wounds between them, there had been civility and understanding enough among them that their existence within sight of one another remained tolerable though the years.

"The maesters say he will not be long now," the Queen admitted, her tired sigh lending heaviness to the sombre statement. "If you would speak to him you had best be quick about it. He grows weary so easily these days." Uncertainty must have played upon her features plainly, for Elia merely shook her head. "Go to him then."

The antechamber emptied until only Jon and she had remained. Her son, who had until that point stood a slight distance away, approached. "If you would rather see him alone, I could wait here."

"You will come with me," she told him harsher than she meant to. "Apologies, I did not mean to sound so intransigent. But you have come all the way to see him, and see him we shall. I need but a moment to gather myself." It might have been easier had she not understood, at least in her heart, his wish.

As it was, she found herself in two minds. And yet if she did not go to him now, if he departed before she managed to speak her piece, there would be sadness between them which could never be rightened. She took her son's hand and stroked her thumb along the palm, as though to soothe him. "Now then, shall we be on our way?"

Jon nodded, but she sensed the strain behind the gesture. She told herself 'twas not fair to push. He might have refused and yet he'd come with her. She drew in a sharp breath before squaring her shoulders and stepping into the bedchamber.

Low light flickered with the movement of the currents. One of the candles guttered but its brethren remained steadfast in their duty. Rhaegar had been propped against the pillows, their entrance met with a squint. Without thought she let go of Jon's hand and hurried to his side, pressing one of his hands with hers. "Ah, you have made good time," he spoke in greeting once he assured himself it was her.

She kissed the top of his head. "I have brought someone with me. He wishes to speak to you." Glancing over her shoulder she motioned Jon closer. "Here, my love, speak to our son, won't you?"

"Jon?" 'Twas disbelief she heard in his voice and her heart gave a shallow squeeze. But she drew herself away from him and allowed the boy closer. "You ought to have written that you were bringing him as well."

"And ruin the surprise? Not I." But she did not linger. Whatever was to be said, she'd had her time with the boy. It was Rhaegar's turn to make his peace and give his explanations. "If you'd allow it, I have a mind to walk a little."

Might be guessing at her aim, Rhaegar let her be. "Do not tarry," he said nevertheless.

"Aye, worry not. I shall return to you." Like she always did. Lyanna followed the words with a light stroke to his cheek before patting her son's hand. "Come fine me after you are done, aye?"

"I will." He would, Lyanna trusted that. Whether he would do so in anger, or have some charity for his father, that she could not say.

Thus she made her way to the door and pushed it open, leaving the men to their talk. Her legs carried her in the hallway where the Bull and Ser Whent stood guard. She passed them with a nod and might have walked to the stairs had a door to her side not open.

One of the Queen's women stood in its frame. "My lady, if you would follow me," she beckoned.

Lyanna did. It was with no great surprise that she found herself seated before Elia Martell who was working on her embroidery. Her companions were dismissed, to wait in the antechamber and entertain themselves in the meantime. "Rhaegar explained the best he could," she said. Lyanna did not need to think too hard to guess of what she spoke. "I do not wish Aegon or Rhaenys to come by this knowledge."

"Nor would I," she agreed. "Jon Snow is my brother's natural born son for all intents and purposes. I thought bringing him to court might put him in the path of a great lord."

The Queen looked up from her toil. "That is just as well. Have you given thought to what I spoke of?"

She nodded. Lyanna brought her hands to rest in her lap. "It is a generous offer, Your Majesty, but I must refuse. You are very kind to concern yourself over my fate and know that I did not come to this decision lightly."

"Are you quite certain? If 'tis the region that gives you pause, we could look in the North." But she was shaking her head and the Queen silently asked for some manner of explanation.

"I have spoked with my brother. He suggested a like scheme, but I refused him as well."

"You are decided then? I may not change your mind?"

"Quite decided and no at all, Your Majesty."

Elia sighed, a long rush of air expelled. "I would not have it said we sent you away empty-handed. Rhaegar himself looked into all of them, do you know?"

"That fool, as if I would consent. He worries too much, and I shall tell him precisely that."

"If you do happen to change your mind," the Queen maintained, her calm expression unperturbed, "you have but to write."

A knock on the door interrupted their talk. One of Elia's women poked her head in, "Her Grace is come."

"And I've a bedside to sit at," Lyanna excused herself upon the heels of that announcement, standing to her feet. Before she could depart, though, Elia took hold of her arm. She paused.

"Thank you. He can leave with an easier heart now."

She nodded.


End file.
